


Back to Brooklyn

by Jacobi



Category: Avengers, Captain America (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Natasha, Brooklyn, Bucky is #over this shit, Bucky paces, Future, Lost & confused Clint, Russia, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve can (actually) keep a secret, it’s like sad for 2 secs, lots of sass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 13:39:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12865689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacobi/pseuds/Jacobi
Summary: Natasha stood beside him, her head barely coming to his shoulder. It was Bucky, at 16, in chalk on the pavement surrounded by suns and whales and airplanes.It was Steve's homage to the boy he'd loved. Fuck that. Natasha was over that. Bucky Barnes was still alive. There hadn't been a body and so he had to be alive.She made a phone call. A disheveled archer on the other side of town knocked over three empty pizza boxes and tripped over a dog before answering."Puts some pants on," The Smokey female voice ordered on the other end of the phone. "We're going to play some hide and seek."The man squinted at the dog. "This is a bad idea." He announced. But his pants were found easily enough on the back of the chair in the dining room. "This is a very, very bad idea."





	1. Angry

  You can blame it on the war all you want.

  You can blame the war for taking away somebody who was already gone and for wrecking your life even when it was already set on a collision course.

  But in the end, the only thing that blaming the war does is that it gives the war power over you because you give it worth.

  That is what "I'm not your therapist, man" Sam told Steve and what Steve remembered. Especially the part about the somebody who was already gone.

  They expected Steve to be sad, or maybe at the least, confused. That was just about the worst thing to wake up to after being thawed out of the ice because it was exactly the opposite assumption that Bucky would have had and it just made Steve's mood all the more apparent.

  Bucky could read Steve like an open book. He'd always been able to. He would have known that Steve was mad.

  And Steve was mad. He was mad as a cat. He'd gotten everything other people thought he wanted so much that he almost believed them. He had height and he had working lungs and girls gave him the time of day.

  But.

  He didn't have Bucky.

  Tony Stark thought that the reason Steve looked so tragic when confronted with modern technology was because Steve was a good ole' boy from the '40s who didn't like change.

  Instead, when Steve saw electric cars and drones and cellphones, he only thought about how enthralled Bucky would have been. Oh, it would have been hideous, how god damn excited he would have been.

  Steve was so angry.

  But nobody in this new world knew him, and so they mistook his frown for concentration and his silence as a character attribute. They took his clipped sentences as normal and his rigid posture as his default.

  Steve was so angry.

  "You know what?" He finally said one morning. Sam was sitting in the shade next to him after their morning run. Sam grunted.

  "Bucky didn't even need to go to boot camp. He'd been fighting wars since the day he was born- coulda been a god damn general at the rate he was going. How the hell did the people in charge figure he could pick his battles and set them down just as easily?" Steve scoffed.

  Sam looked over at him, unimpressed and squinting in the morning sun. "Man, it's entirely too early for your depression-era philosophy shit. You're using big words and expressing big ideas and I'm still catching my breath."

  Steve clenched his jaw shut before he could snap that it was never the time for him to express any emotion ever. That it was never the time for people to actually listen to what he had to say on the matter. Because Sam did listen once he had coffee and Steve knew that Sam really was trying in his own, frank way to be understanding.

  "Listen, bro. I'll tell you what. I don't know what y'all went through in that war, I really can't imagine, you know? So I can't help you with that. I'm not your therapist. But as one friend to another? I know what it's like to loose your right hand man." Sam consented after a moment of tense silence.

  He really, really did not have enough caffeine in him to manage a case of severe suppressed emotion and toxic masculinity that seemed to be characteristic of every super-serum soldier from the '40s that he knew -there was actually only one. Just Steve- but he felt obligated to reach out anyway.

  "Yeah. Except he- yeah." Steve could feel the anger draining out of him, replaced quickly by a sense of hopelessness. He couldn't ever get his point across. He didn't know the new slang terms and it was just... sometimes it was just easier to be quiet.

  "Except what?" Sam encouraged.

  Steve glanced over at his friend, slumped against the tree trunk. He got up, plastered on a smile, and extended a hand. "Ah, nothing. Just memories. C'mon, let's get something to eat."

  "Yeah? I thought you never ate, aren't you supposed to be a robot or some shit?" Sam jostled Steve's shoulder.

  It was almost the type of joke that Bucky would have made in '38. _What the hell, the starving artist is actually hungry you say? Aren't you supposed to be, y'know, starving?_

  And it hurt, because it was so, so close to Bucky's brand of humor, but the backstory was missing.

  "What's the goal, Steve?" Natasha found him seething in silence on a bench in Central Park. Of course she did.

  It was Bucky's face under the mask and he didn't know him. Didn't know Steve. But Steve knew that look in those eyes- it was fear. Same as it was after all the times Bucky'd fished him out of fights.

_"What's the goal, huh? Pal, you look me in the eye, what's the goal of all this fighting? To fuckin' kill yourself? Is that the goal? Why the hell are ya so angry all the time?!"_

  "I don't know. Die." It was supposed to be a joke, but these future people didn't always pick up on his flat-toned sarcasm.

  Natasha puffed her cheeks out in a sigh.

  "Steve-" Her voice caught in her throat. Steve glanced over. Her stoic expression hadn't changed, so it must have been his imagination.

  "If James could remember his name, he would tell you that he loved the rocket ships. And he loved television in color. And he loved New York and it's sky scrapers and crazy lights, even if the people get more and more each day. And he'd tell you that you're not funny, even though he'd be laughing and making a joke four times as politically and socially incorrect. If he could remember his name right now today, he would walk up to you and throw an arm around your shoulder and he'd say 'Pal, you gotta be careful of all that anger, it'll eat up your heart and then there won't be any left for me.' That's what he would say."

  Steve turned to her, dry-eyed and shocked. "How?" He asked. "How?"

  And it must have been his imagination, because Natasha's eyes were red and tears? There were tears on her cheeks?

  She pressed a file into his hands. "I knew him once before he really disappeared. I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_." And then she was gone, leaving Steve with a file that was altogether too thin to represent Bucky Barnes but too thick to represent the horrors that he must have experienced after the fall.

  If only... if only Steve had gone back to look.

  But he had. He had for three days.

  There was a carefully smoothed out piece of old notebook paper on top of the real information, covering that gruesome account. It was in Bucky's easy scrawl. The date was 11-07-1978.

_"When you get out, find that man for me, the captain of America. His name is Steven Grant Rogers and I grew up with him before all of this. I won't remember any of this, my mind's going and it won't stop, but you gotta look out for him. Please. And take care of yourself, watch your left side, you over compensate sometimes. Hit with the flats of your hands and if you gotta throw a punch don't, for the love of god, tuck your thumb under. I know you're a kid and you've killed as many as I have without the war, but do it for my sake, anyways. But Steve, before I forget, he's so angry all the time. I love him for it, but tell him to watch that it doesn't take his heart away from me. And a"_

  The letter stopped. The ink was smudged in places with water marks and rusty blood drops. The handwriting was shaky. Which made sense- Bucky was left-handed.

  Steve took out his phone.

 **To Natasha** : How long?

 **From Natasha** : We were on a mission together and we went to New York and he started remembering... weird things. Things like where pretzel stands used to be. And he'd be confused when they weren't there because he couldn't remember the context

 **From Natasha** : He saw a thing in the paper on the search for you, they were still publishing the bi-monthly updates and something fell into place and for a moment he almost became a person

 **To Natasha** : and then?

 **From Natasha** : He was so sad. He was so, so sad

 **To Natasha** : How bad?

 **From Natasha** : Steve...

 **From Natasha** : I lost tabs on him after that week. The mission was over. But he was dead in the eyes. I can't explain it, except when he saw the newspaper update, his eyes flickered, and then he was gone just as quickly

 **From Natasha:** I'm sorry.

 **To Natasha** : Me too.

 **To Natasha** : I've got to find him. Even if it's just to see him

 **From Natasha** : I know. Closure

 **From Natasha** : do what you need to do, let me know if you need contacts

 **From Natasha** : for the record I don't know anything about your plans or how you came across that file

 **To Natasha** : what file?

 **From Natasha** : Good boy

 **From Natasha** : Be careful

 **To Natasha** : Probably won't be

 **From Natasha** : I know. Good luck


	2. Almost

  James Buchanan Barnes was in Norway, and then he wasn't.

  He was in Lebanon, and then he wasn't.

  He was in Kiev, and then he wasn't.

  He was in Adelaide, Australia, and then he wasn't.

  He was in the Andes mountains, and then he wasn't.

 **From Natasha** : What the hell is he doing?

 **To Natasha** : he's going all of the places he's always wanted to go

  It was strange, for Steve. To watch this man who he barely knew now live out a bucket list that was made on a whim one drunken Saturday night on the floor of the kitchen in a Brooklyn apartment in 1935.

  It was strange because Bucky always said that Steve would be with him. Or, no he hadn't... no, he hadn't.

_"And me? Am I coming too?" Steve had asked, playing with the label on the bottle of cheap beer._

_"'Course y'are, but in here." Bucky had tapped his chest over his heart. "Can't drag you all over the world, you'd die. So wait here for me in Brooklyn, an' I'll meet back with you. God, Stevie, imagine the stories I'll have to tell, jus' you wait an' I'll come back to you. Always, always."_

  James Buchanan Barnes walked out of the barber shop in Red Hook after shaking the hand of the barber and leaving a tip. He was so human. He looked straight out of a history book, straight out of every memory Steve had of him. Hair in a neat coif, casually dressed in what people called 'hipster' now. And god, Bucky had aged well. He was bigger now, with a lot more muscle on his frame.

  But he carried swagger beneath his leather shoes. It was a cloudy day, but the sun still shone in his eyes. Sea-glass blue.

  "Hey, pal," He spotted Steve right away. There was something a little predatory now in his posture. His feet made no sound across the cobblestones. But some things you just can't shake. "I been lookin' for ya all over."

  Steve stood, stunned. Bucky's voice was deeper than he remembered. And it carried slightly different intonations picked up from his... travels.

  "Bucky, I-"

  The SWAT team arrived without warning. And how had Steve missed the warning signs, how had both of them together not seen the signs?

  Bucky's gloves were off in the blink of an eye, a hand gun trained somewhere over Steve's shoulder. But to an outsider, it could be seen as the Winter Soldier taking aim on Captain America.

  It happened fast, too fast.

  Steve didn't even have time to remember his anger. He saw in Bucky's eyes the same helplessness Steve felt when people asked him if he wanted grief counseling.

  The SWAT team was closing in fast, too fast. The dark on their Kevlar vests swallowing the two lone figures, men out of time on a street in Brooklyn.

  Bucky swung the handgun away from its target over Steve's shoulder and tucked it under his chin. He closed his eyes

  " _Bucky, NO!_ "

  There was a shot, but Steve couldn't tell from where. His vision had blacked out.

  James Buchanan Barnes was in Brooklyn, and then

 

 

  He wasn't.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but wait I’m sry it gets better


	3. After

  Natasha sat on the pavement beside Steve for a long time.

  People walked passed them, dressed in nondescript clothes. It was funny, she thought, how easily Steve could become invisible. But funny in a way that it was born out of necessity. Funny in a way that it was sad.

  "There wasn't a body." She broke the silence.

  Steve deftly drew a perfect circle in yellow chalk. Natasha liked the way it sounded, chalk on pavement.

  The city had closed off a whole street for the chalk festival, and people of all ages sat covered in technicolor dust, cartoons of varying levels surrounding them.

  "I should have known. He's been dead a long, long time, Natasha. I think... I think I was the last thing he needed to set right before he could find peace." It was a sun that Steve was drawing.

  "But there wasn't a body." Natasha insisted.

  "They probably took it. I passed out, I didn't want to see my worst nightmare played out in front of me, I guess." Steve shrugged. He accepted the blue chalk that Natasha handed him and began to draw a whale.

   "But nobody does that. Nobody who has something to live for- Steve I know him as the Winter Soldier, he's been through much worse. He has, I don't think he's dead." Natasha handed him a darker blue.

  "But I knew him as Bucky, and when push came to shove, he always got real desperate. Impulsive. Sometimes he couldn't see a way out, maybe to him it was the only option. Think about it, it's not like we could have gone on the run together for forever."

  It was surprising, how okay with the situation Steve was.

  "Steven. He isn't dead. He just bought you some time, he needs time. I _know_ him." Natasha shook her head.

  "Sure, sure. But I _knew_ him. And I've lost him. And I know the sound of a bullet on flesh, through hard bone."

  Steve stood, then, wiping his palms on his slacks and leaving behind green chalk dust. He appraised his work.

  Natasha stood beside him, her head barely coming to his shoulder. It was Bucky, at 16, in chalk on the pavement surrounded by suns and whales and airplanes.

  It was Steve's homage to the boy he'd loved. Fuck that. Natasha was over that. Bucky Barnes was still alive. There hadn't been a body and so he had to be alive.

  She made a phone call. A disheveled archer on the other side of town knocked over three empty pizza boxes and tripped over a dog before answering.

  "Puts some pants on," The Smokey female voice ordered on the other end of the phone. "We're going to play some hide and seek."

  The man squinted at the dog. "This is a bad idea." He announced. But his pants were found easily enough on the back of the chair in the dining room. "This is a very, _very_ bad idea."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy oh boy am I excited for Clint


	4. Amiable

  Clint picked up his phone from where it was vibrating on the coffee table. Papers and maps and lists of schematics slid off of his chest from where they had fallen when he'd nodded off at 2AM.

  It was Natasha, but she wasn't saying anything. He took the phone away from his ear and squinted. He was connected.

  "Hello?"

  Nothing. He shrugged and ended the call, probably a mistake or something.

  Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. Bruce leaned over to catch a glimpse of who she was dealing with.

  "How's Clint?"

  "Deaf."

  " _Dead?_ "

  "No, I mean he doesn't have his aides in and doesn't realize it and hung up on me."

  Pepper walked in and slid a tray of sandwiches and coffee in Natasha's direction. "At least he has an excuse. Tony just hangs up on me."

  At 7AM, Natasha broke into Clint's apartment. It wasn't _technically_ breaking in, she reasoned, because she had a key. Only she didn't use the key, she got in through the window. But what's a small detail here and there anyway? And besides, they were sort of friends, and friends didn't break in on friends, they just paid... surprised visits. The matter of entry was insignificant.

  Lucky was curled up on the couch. Natasha could make out Clint's form curled over paper strewn across his kitchen table, fast asleep in the shadows. There were papers all over the couch too, and his phone was on the coffee table, so he must have moved locations at some point.

  She moved quickly and quietly. There was much to be done. First, the pizza boxes had to go. Those were easy to vacate via the window to the recycling bin next to the dumpster. The empty beer bottles met the same fate.

  By 8am, the apartment looked like it was lived in, four levels above the home base crash pad of a bachelor that it usually fell under the category of.

  Natasha only cleaned Clint's apartment when he didn't answer the phone because that meant he had most likely misplaced his hearing aides, which was a sure indicator that the apartment had gone past it's usual state of surprisingly organized chaos to a hoarder's wet dream.

  This, in turn, meant that Clint needed help. That wasn't coming from him, but Natasha had decided that that's what it meant. Because more than anything, Clint loved his dog, and he would do nothing to endanger it, ever. He liked to provide a good and nurturing home for said dog, and when he failed to do so, something was horribly wrong.

  Clint slowly blinked awake to the smell of something that wasn't pizza being cooked in his kitchen.

  A hazy outline of a female in a purple-black hoodie and track pants stood at his stove. This had to be a dream. The apartment was presentable, so it had to be a dream.

  A plate was shoved in front of him and an outstretched palm offered him his hearing aides much more carefully. Clint curled the fingers around his aids and gently pushed them away. A silent 'no thanks'.

  Natasha took a seat across from him, unfazed. And god was she a sight for sore eyes. Clint hasn't seen her in, what, a month? A month and a half?

  _Good morning,_ He signed. _Didn't hear you come in._

  Natasha shrugged. Her equivalent of 'you wouldn't have' or 'I know' or 'it's been a while' or 'okay'.

  Natasha did well with silence. Clint liked that. He liked her. She was kind of a knock out. But he was kind of a mess, so it wouldn't ever work, but they both liked high places and watching MMA, so that worked too.

  Clint pushed some papers over toward her and tapped the headers, emphasizing them. Natasha pulled them closer to her, shoving a forkful of warm chocolate chip pancakes in her mouth simultaneously.

  They were not the papers she was expecting. She put down her fork and looked at Clint. It wasn't threatening, but it was a warning.

  The papers were titled Natalia Romanova.

  "We're looking for Barnes." Natasha said aloud, pushing papers titled James Buchanan Barnes toward Clint in exchange. " _Not_ digging up my past."

  _Won't have to look long_. Clint pursed his lips, pointing to the papers with her name on them again.

  "It's simple." He spoke aloud, although he couldn't hear his own voice, feeling only the vibrations of his vocal chords. "What would Natalia Romanova do? That's where we'll find him."

  But of course, they both shared the unspoken 'if' in silence.

_That is, if he wants to be found_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really a big fan of Clint and Nat coexisting


	5. Always

  Clint and Natasha were good at joking together. They had fun together. But best of all, they worked well together.

  Natasha checked their room for bugs while Clint scopes out the sight lines of the house they were basing out of. It was in a forest in Russia, giving off pretenses of a hunting lodge. But Tony Stark didn't half-ass safe houses, and he certainly hadn't half-assed this one.

  Both parties stepped back in synch, impressed.

  "Okay," Natasha nodded to herself. "I can work with this."

  Russia was the least safe place for a former Soviet assassin to return to, and James Barnes was smart. So he would be in Russia because that's where he shouldn't be, but because he was smart, he would be four times as wary.

  "You know," Natasha said four nights later, next to Clint on the couch. "I can sort of see the appeal." She was talking about Barnes, the laptop balanced on her knees displaying the most recent picture they had of him. A fire crackled absently in front of them.

  "Yeah?" Clint asked, pouring over a topographical map of the area. He'd have it memorized by morning.

  "Sure. He's handsome and he's sharp and he's got history on his hands." It was a helluva romantic way to describe a guy, and something in Clint's heart sighed wistfully.

  "Guess so." He nodded.

  "But, you know, I like you better." Natasha continued. Clint blinked and tore his attention away from the map. "James is Steve's always, I think. But he doesn't have a dog with a pallet for pizza and he doesn't sign obscenities at me during board meetings."

  This was the most sentimental Natasha had ever been, and Clint was tempted to take it and run. But- "Well, you don't know that. Maybe he knows ASL. Was it even invented in the 1800's?"

  "I don't know, he wasn't born then." The moment ended and Natasha went back to running Barnes's face through every large scale data base there was.

  Their search was delayed when the blizzard rolled in. Clint was busy using every pot and pan he could find to distill a single cup of hot chocolate ( _it's a science, Nat!_ ) when there was a faint knocking at the door. He didn't even hear it, but figured there was something, because Natasha wasn't even bothering to conceal her handgun when she edged open the door against the ice and snow.

  A giant of a man took up the doorway. "Tell me why I had to trek across half of Russia to find you?" A slightly miffed voice questioned, the New York drawl familiar in the air. He sounded like Steve, only pluckier, quicker on the uptake.

  "James. So good of you to make it." Natasha greeted him dryly. "We were under the impression that we were looking for you."

  Clint topped off his hot chocolate with mini marshmallows and took a tentative sip. Delicious.

  Natasha closed the door behind Barnes.

  "Oh, I surely hope not, ain't nobody who's been trying to find me that's actually found me on their own accord." It was a little cocky, but Clint figured the man had the right to be.

  "So, how's Steve?" Natasha asked. Clint observed from the safety of the kitchen.

  James Barnes shed layer after layer. Once he was stripped down to his quick-dry thermal base-layer, he slid his glance over to Clint, who was mid-sip. And yeah, Clint had to admit, the guy had an appeal.

  "So," Barnes repeated Natasha's question. "How _is_ Steve?" 

  "You mean since you shot yourself in the head? Cool party trick, by the way." Clint held his gaze. "They teach you that in spy school?"

  "Sure did," Barnes didn't miss a beat. "Say, I like this guy." He said, turning to Natasha.

  "Yeah, me too. So why'd you do it, huh?" Natasha held him to it.

  "Well sorry, Officer. It's just that you're so pretty, I couldn't help but-"

  Clint let his mug clank loudly on the counter. "Cut the shit, Barnes. You wanna know how he is? Goddamn devastated. He doesn't get bagels anymore, you know? And that's on you."

  "I could kill you seventeen different ways."

  "Am I supposed to be scared?" (And maybe Clint was, just a little, but he had the counter between them) "Natasha can do it in one."

  Neither man missed the smug little smile that Natasha fought to keep down.

  Barnes ran his tongue over his lip and crossed his arms. "And why the _hell_ are you so _invested?_ I don't even know your name."

  "It's Clint. And that's Natasha. And Natasha says Steve's your always, but I don't know how true that is, because Natasha is _my_ always, and I sure as hell wouldn't _shoot myself in the head_ and then disappear and leave her sulking around New York mourning the death of a living man. What the _hell_ , Barnes. Why are you _here_ and not with him?"

  "I don't sulk." Natasha raised her chin defiantly.

  Clint gave her a look. "Mmm, you do a _little_ bit-"

  "I'm your forever?"

  "Sorry about it."

  " _Christ_ , I didn't know I was stepping in on the god damn _honey-moon,_ lemme just grab my coat."

  For a deadly assassin with a mettle arm, James Barnes had a whole lot of sass. He kind of reminded Clint of Sam.  

  Natasha threw up her hands. "I don't even know where this is going anymore. We're supposed to be finding you, you said you were the one who found us, and now Clint and I are already married apparently."

  Barnes looked between Natasha and Clint, the gears turning in his head. "So you don't know?" He asked, cocking his head.

  "That we're married?" Clint tried to follow.

  "What? No. Okay, let's start over. Where do you think I've been?" Barnes asked.

  "Not in Russia, apparently." Natasha quipped.

  A slow, baffled smile split across Barnes's face. "No. Not in Russia. In _Brooklyn_. With Steve. Guess he didn't tell you."

  "No." Clint sighed. "No, he didn't."

  Barnes pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a familiar motion, Nat did it all the time. "Okay, well, that little jerk is why I'm here. He sent me to find you but neglected to tell you that I was already found, apparently. And now I'm stuck here in a blizzard. In Russia." He shook his head.

  "It would appear so. Welcome to our honey-moon." Natasha replied dryly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who’s back, back again


	6. Arrival

  Clint had heard of cabin fever, but Barnes had the cabin flu. Two hours into the blizzard and he was already on his feet, making a slow circuit of the house. After his fifth pass of the kitchen, Clint started on another cup of hot chocolate.

  Barnes paused in the living room and looked out of the one-way windows at the white-out. Clint put the mug in front of his chest. Barnes looked down at the mug, and then at Clint, and then back at the mug. He started to lift up his left hand, but ended up taking the mug with his right.

  "You know ASL?" Clint asked casually.

  Instead of answering the question, Barnes took a sip of the hot chocolate. He nodded appreciably. "Well, if it's gonna take you half the kitchen to make, guess it's worth it."

  "Do you ever answer questions?"

  Barnes made a face. "It's this thing I have..." He was already moving, working on his tenth house-circuit.

 **From Clint** : wtf does he have amnesia? Won't follow thru w a question??

 **From Natasha** : Your slang is atrocious. Probably does have amnesia, but he's also paranoid.

 **From Clint** : like you?

 **From Natasha** : Sure. Only fifteen times worse. Stop texting me, I'm in the next room, just come over

 **From Clint** : r ur parents home?

_*Natasha is typing*_

**_Read at: 2:43 pm_ **

—

  At 4am, Clint stuck out his foot in Barnes's path just to see if that would stop him.

  "Fuck off, I'm anxious as hell."

  "You kiss Steve with that mouth?"

  "I do a lot more w-"

  Clint took out his hearing aides. That was a hard nope to that conversation. Plus, it was fun to watch people screaming at each other with no sound, it made everything lest serious. This happened two hours later around 6am. The blizzard was only just ramping up to its full power.

  James Barnes had good arguing technique, Clint observed, especially around smaller people. He knew how to use his physical presence and how to get just enough in Natasha's space to assert himself, but far enough away so that he wasn't smothering. Impressive.

  Except Natasha was Natasha, and Clint knew things were getting really serious when she brought out her index-finger-to-the-chest-jab.

  Clint watched Barnes disassemble and re-assemble all of his weapons four times over the course of the day. Barnes and Natasha had made up by noon.

  Finally, Barnes stopped moving. He sat down on the couch next to Clint and was very, very still. The stillness of a sniper. Clint slipped his hearing aides back on. "You're okay." He said to the immobile form.

  "Not if they find me."

  "No one's finding you."

  "I'm not going back."

  "No one’s finding you."

  James Barnes glanced over at Clint. "They might."

  "Okay. So what. So they find you, and they find us too, and we win and the blizzard's over and you go back to Steve and I go back to my apartment and see my dog and Nat goes and does... whatever. And it's fine. That's how it goes." Clint laid it out calmly. He was basically an expert in super-spy paranoia.

  Half of Barnes's mouth lifted in an attempt at a smile. It was a good start. "Why doesn't she go back to your apartment?" He asked.

  "Doesn't live there." Clint shrugged. It's fine. That's how it goes.

  “Why not?"

  Why not? Why not? Because... because.

  "Ask her."

  "I'm asking you, pal. Why not?"

  Clint mirrored Barnes's half smile. "Well, I can't answer for her because she's her own woman."

  Barnes nodded to himself and said nothing more.

  James Buchanan Barnes was in Russia, and then he wasn't.

  He was eating airport food with a woman and a man, and then he wasn't.

  He was on a plane, throwing cards with the woman and signs with the man, and then he wasn't.

  He was in a New Jersey airport, and then he wasn't.

  He was in a train, and then a taxi, and then another train, and then he wasn't.

  James Buchanan Barnes was in the hallway of an apartment building, and then he wasn't.

  Then, he was inside an apartment, and then he was in the arms of Steve Rogers.

  "I'm gonna kill you in seventeen different ways for making me hole up in a fucking house in Russia with those jerks." Bucky mumbled.

  Steve hummed against his temple, a silent 'no, you won't.' And then, he said- _"Natasha could do it in one."_

  In Bed-Stuy, Clint dropped his grab-bag with a satisfying thud and collapsed on his bed, Lucky prancing over his exhausted form. Something smacked off of his window.

  He peered out, fully ready to give an earful to whatever kid was shooting a B.B. gun at the building again.

  Instead, it was Natasha. She held up a hand, two middle fingers folded down, pointer, index, and thumb left up.

  Clint smiled. He mirrored her sign even if she couldn't see. That was okay, maybe someday. Maybe someday.

  He turned to the dog. "Maybe someday, huh?" He said. Lucky whined.

  “God, you're so right, we _should_ order pizza! Good dog. Very, _very_ good dog."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pizza dog ftw
> 
> Also- the sign described at the end is ASL for “I love you”


End file.
